The Last Coyote

about either one?”
    “No, he never mentioned a thing, either.”
    “What was your relationship like? Didn’t he treat you as a chiseler?”
    “No, because I wasn’t a chiseler,” Kim protested but the indignation in his voice was hollow. “I did a job for him and I did it well. He was always very nice to me.”
    “He was in your story on Fox. I don’t have it here but in it he said he had never met Fox.”
    “Yeah, that was a lie. I made that up.”
    Bosch was confused.
    “What do you mean? You mean, you made up the lie?”
    “In case they went back on the deal. I put Conklin in the story saying he didn’t know the guy because I had evidence he did. They knew I had it. That way, if after the election they reneged on the deal, I could dredge up the story again and show Conklin said he didn’t know Fox but he did. I could then make the inference that he also knew Fox’s background when he hired him. It wouldn’t have done much good because he’d have already been elected, but it would do some PR damage. It was my little insurance policy. Understand?”
    Bosch nodded.
    “What was the evidence you had that Conklin knew Fox?”
    “I had photos.”
    “What photos?”
    “They were taken by the society photographer for the Times at the Hollywood Masonic Lodge’s St. Patrick’s Day dance a couple of years before the election. There’s two of them. Conklin and Fox are at a table. They were scratches but one day I was-”
    “What do you mean, scratches?”
    “Photos never published. Outtakes. But, see, I used to look at the society stuff in the photo lab, so I could learn who the big shots in the city were and who they were out with and so on. It was useful information. One day I saw these photos of Conklin and some guy that I recognized but wasn’t sure from where. It was because of the social background. This wasn’t Fox’s turf so at the time I didn’t recognize him. Then, when Fox got killed and I was told he worked for Conklin, I remembered the photos and who the other man was. Fox. I went back to the scratch files and pulled them out.”
    “They were just sitting there together at this dance?”
    “In the photos? Yeah. And they were smiling. You could tell they knew each other. These weren’t posed shots. In fact, that’s why each was a scratch. They weren’t good photos, not for the society page.”
    “Anybody else with them?”
    “A couple women, that was it.”
    “Go get the photos.”
    “Oh, I don’t have them anymore. I tossed them after I didn’t need them anymore.”
    “Kim, don’t bullshit me, okay? There was never a time you didn’t need them. Those photos are probably why you are alive today. Now go get them or I’ll take you downtown for withholding evidence, then I’ll come back with a warrant and tear this place apart.”
    “All right! Jesus! Wait here. I have one of them.”
    He got up and went up the stairs. Bosch just stared at the dog. It was wearing a sweater that matched Kim’s. He heard a closet door being moved on rollers, then a heavy thud. He guessed a box had been taken off the shelf and dropped to the floor. In a few more moments, Kim’s heavy steps were coming down the stairs. As he passed the couch, he handed Bosch a black-and-white eight-by-ten that was yellowed around the edges. Bosch stared at it for a long time.
    “I have the other in a safe deposit box,” Kim said. “It’s a clearer shot of the two of them. You can tell it’s Fox.”
    Bosch didn’t say anything. He was still looking at the photo. It was a flashbulb shot. Everybody’s face was lit up white as snow. Conklin sat across a table from the man Bosch assumed was Fox. There were a half dozen drink glasses on the table. Conklin was smiling and heavy-lidded-that was probably why the photo was a scratch-and Fox was turned slightly away from the camera, his features indistinguishable. Bosch guessed you would have had to know him to recognize him. Neither of them seemed aware of the photographer’s presence. Flashbulbs were probably going off all over the place.
    But more so than the men, Bosch studied the two women in the photo. Standing next to Fox and bending over to whisper in his ear was a woman in a dark one-piece dress that was tight around the middle. Her hair was swirled on top of her head. It was Meredith Roman. And sitting across the table and next to Conklin, mostly obscured by him, was Marjorie Lowe. Bosch guessed that if you didn’t already know her, she wouldn’t